His enemies had murdered him; would they not
continue to assail his name? She resolved that his memory should be
her care. That had nothing to do with love; simple justice demanded it.
Justice and gratitude for the last words he had spoken to her.

She had as yet scarcely noticed the room in which she was. At length
she surveyed it; its poverty brought tears in her eyes. There had been a
fire, but the last spark was dead. She began to feel cold.

Soon there was the sound of someone ascending the stairs, and Emma,
after knocking, again entered. She carried a tray with tea-things, which
she placed upon the table. Then, having glanced at the fireplace, she
took from a cupboard wood and paper and was beginning to make a fire
when Adela stopped her, saying:

'You must not do that for me. I will light the fire myself, if you will
let me.'

Emma looked up in surprise.

'It is kind of you to bring me the tea,' Adela continued. 'But let me do
the rest.'

'If you wish to--yes,' the other replied, without understanding the
thought which prompted Adela. She carefully held herself from glancing
towards the dead man, and moved away.

Adela approached her.

'Have you a room for the night?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Will you--will you take my hand before you leave me?' She held it
forth; Emma, with eyes turned to the ground, gave her own.

'Look at me,' Adela said, under her breath.

Their eyes met, and at last Emma understood. In that grave, noble gaze
was far more than sympathy and tenderness; it was a look that besought
pardon.

'May I come to you in the night to see if you need anything?' Emma
asked.

'I shall need nothing. Come only if you can't sleep.'

Adela lit the fire and began her night's watching.

CHAPTER XXXVI

A deep breath of country air. It is springtime, and the valley of Wanley
is bursting into green and flowery life, peacefully glad as if the foot
of Demos had never come that way. Incredible that the fume of furnaces
ever desecrated that fleece-sown sky of tenderest blue, that hammers
clanged and engines roared where now the thrush utters his song so
joyously. Hubert Eldon has been as good as his word. In all the valley
no trace is left of what was called New Wanley. Once more we can climb
to the top of Stanbury Hill and enjoy the sense of remoteness and
security when we see that dark patch on the horizon, the cloud that
hangs over Belwick.

Hubert and the vicar of Wanley stood there tog